The Hole
by Inkfire
Summary: He was day and night, the blinding light and the thousand nuances in-between. A series of Bellamort drabbles for the Time of Day challenge on the Dark Lord's Most Faithful forum.
1. Times of Longing and Fortitude

**So this is a first of a series of Bellamort drabbles for TuesdayNovember's Times of Day challenge on The Dark Lord's Most Faithful forum. It'll get more Bellamort as it carries on, hopefully – I'm a bit rusty with those two =P oh well, I have Florence for inspiration. Godly stuff. I had to take out all of the lyrics because of copyright, though - so much for sharing…**

**Enjoy!**

_**Times of day**_

_**For this challenge, I want you to set or focus your fic at a specific time, be that either an exact hour (X o'clock) or something more vague, like afternoon. The time can be either a prominent feature, or just a subtle reference, as long as it's included.**_

_**And, to return us to our challenge roots, so to speak, the word limits are either 100 or 500 words (give or take a few.)**_

* * *

She'd waited hours to sneak out of the Manor, anxious for the right second and frantic not to let it pass. She ran from the party and across the lawn, discarding her high heels on the way in her nerves-induced thoughtlessness. Barefoot and without a cloak, she materialized in the clearing looking like an eerie thing, white face and hair half-falling from its bun, throwing herself forward with a desperate cry.

Rodolphus caught her around the waist and she stumbled against his chest, the warmth of him, which should have felt reassuring, oddly wrong under her icy hands.

"What an entrance, drama queen," he whispered into her hair, his grip tightening ever-so-slightly, "Merlin, you're cold."

"Where is he?" she panted, feebly pushing him off. "How late am I? I came as soon as I could, I swear – "

"Bella, calm down!" He started laughing, while she stared at him in disbelief. "He's not even there yet."

"He's not?" she whispered.

"No. I told you one in the morning, remember?"

"I don't have a watch." She was starting to shake again.

And Rodolphus laughed once more. "Well that's unfortunate," he taunted, "the Dark Lord is extremely punctual. And he rather dislikes those who fail to imitate him."

"I'll remedy that," she vowed, her heart hammering in her chest. "I'll be there whenever he needs me, I'll never make him wait a second."

"Take it easy, he hasn't even accepted you yet. If he does you won't need the watch," Rodolphus chuckled, "and you won't get a chance to demonstrate your zeal by coming early and making a fuss either. Your wrist burns, you drop everything and join him at once. Simple."

"Simple," Bellatrix agreed, her throat dry. For now it was her insides which were burning and convulsing, her arms itching in the frigid air. She avoided Rodolphus' too warm, too natural embrace and paced the empty space, finding edgy, anxious delight in the extreme sensations, the turmoil of anticipation in her chest. She was feeling something. "What time is it?" she called over her shoulder.

"You're nearly one hour early. Give it a rest," Rodolphus mocked her. Breathing hard, she craned her neck to look for her star. She couldn't find her bearings in the sky. Tiny dots of white light were dancing, racing, twisting across her vision, until eventually she jerked her head, her heart in her throat.

"He's coming, right." Her voice was too high, shrill in the night. Rodolphus smiled. "Overeagerness," he commented. "It'll get you hurt."

"If she cannot control it, certainly," a smooth voice added out of nowhere, "then again, control, like time, is a notion the young need to learn in this world."

Bellatrix gasped despite herself, and then felt keenly how empty of air her chest was, and how she couldn't take a breath, as he stepped forward slowly and she could make out his features. All she'd been waiting for.

His smile was blade-like. "We'll have to change the world, then," he finished.


	2. Blue

**Here's the next drabble already! Completely unrelated to the first one, and on a really different tone. Quite an odd tone, actually, I guess. Very contemplative. If you, dear reader, want to get in the mood of this, I have two suggestions: first, have a look at the Wikipedia article about twilight ( en . wikipedia wiki / Twilight), the pictures and the description at the top of the article will make it easier to see what I'm trying to describe. And second, if it suits your taste, get some Florence and the Machine in your ears. I wrote this with "Falling", "No Light, No Light" and "Shake It Out" on repeat, and it was what put me in the state of mind -coughtrancecough- that was necessary for this thing to get out. Ah, Florence. There are no words.**

* * *

Maybe it was the light or maybe it was the dark. Fabric sung in bittersweet whispers, close to her ears and air slid tauntingly under the sheets to kiss her heated skin as he stepped out of the bed. Maybe it was everything combined that was screaming for her to wake up, or maybe it was all about his leaving, nothing else, and her mind was just grasping all it could, twisted and blurry as it always was, so that it would make sense. It didn't, it never did and she was all too aware, of course.

Her heart raced at impossible paces, fluttering and constricting, but he moved slowly, and yes – the light was odd, she mused, she had been right, the light was odd on his too-pale skin, blue and eerie. The night clung to him as she longed to and she clung to the sheets, watching his back to her. His skin disappeared under black robes and she was spared the scorching fire of his eyes. He did not turn; his hand extended, elegant, long fingers whose skillful touch she'd never get out of her thoughts, and his wand flew to him, settled gracefully into his palm.

Soundlessly he departed.

She was left with the ceaseless drumming and buzzing of her blood in her temples. She was left half-drenched in bizarre blue light, secrets wrapped around and lounging over every inch of her flesh, purring and speaking to her, and as dawn broke across the sky she would have to let them go. It was bittersweet as this time always was, the time when night danced away, already beyond reach, and day hadn't quite hit her yet. It was slow, the creeping return of reality, gentle as a kiss could sometimes be before something stronger took over. Gentle as the breath that brushed before the bite. And she willed her limbs to move. Almost time to stand again.

Slowly, she stood. She moved to the window, and fully faced the blue light, let it wash over her, with the cold and that hint of sadness that always came laced with beauty. The world looked like a picture and she smiled a little, just the smallest arch of her lips, in the distant irony of her beholding. The world stood pretty and quiet, barely just shaking its dreams off, as she did, watching and watching while nameless fears rose in her throat, until she shook and her fingers clung, her nails pierced her own skin, seeking relief.

Ah. Something sharp.

On cue, the sun broke the horizon, quite low and radiant. Bellatrix turned away, absent-mindedly brushing the blood on her arm. She faced the bedroom and saw how vacant it was. Her lips twisted and her heart drummed. Emptiness. Well, it was no stranger to her.

She had things to be doing, she thought dimly, a world to paint with blood and the vivid colours of crisscrossed curses. It was morning.

Time to remember, or perhaps to forget.


	3. Blinding

"Meet me at sunrise," he would say, and then her nights were spent awake in frantic anticipation.

He was cold as the morning air and radiant as the first rays, each raising of his hand, each quirk of his eyebrow making her heart stop. He stood tall, towering above her, magnificence unfolding before her wide eyes, and taught her to see things she'd never known before.

They said he was a creature of the night, and she knew he was vivid, violent light as well, blazing power that blinded stars and made love to the sky.

It was her secret.


	4. Grey cloaks

The dark fell upon them like a cloak, with no gentle decline and no flash of colours.

Bellatrix's cell had one window which was small and obscured with netting. Where she lay on the ground the day could not touch her. It went, dull and grey and cold, a vicious cold that seeped into her bones. Then the night came and nightmares along with it.

Stars and colour were dead but she recalled his face, fought for it. He'd been pale as the moon with eyes of fire.

And days went by, one piece of her life dying at a time.


	5. Shift

Fifty yards from her he stood, wand slashing through the air, and her eyes caught his silhouette every so often as she whirled and twirled and ducked, dancing the very dance he'd taught her himself, years earlier.

They were three around her, just girls who stood no chance, nothing of a challenge. She'd take one down in no time – the Mudblood, the pale Lovegood girl, or Potter's girlfriend? – and confidence flowed into her veins as she moved, fearless, lethal. That was surely why her gaze was drawn, irresistibly, to the deadly frame of him in the distance as he duelled, also, three to one. Nobody could be a match to him, and she didn't want to miss seeing one of them fall, the fools who'd thrown themselves under her master's wand, absurdly oblivious of the fate that awaited them. Her eyes danced and leaped from face to face, flash to flash, and yet she was keenly aware of her own fight – an awareness that was easy and nothing but utterly natural as she undoubtedly set the rhythm of the duel, whirling and striking in pace with the beating of her heart as the children struggled to survive under her fire. _One-two-three_ – twist and turn, and a curse flew mere inches from the redheaded girl's chest, a merciful shot and yet a reminder. Swiftness, and control, with just a hint of wilderness – the sheer essence of duelling, which her opponents would never get the chance to know. Instinctively, her gaze sought his approval, a second's sharing of their power and impending victory – but he was not looking, and in the time it took her to turn back, an almighty shriek that was certainly no curse had resounded and something in her fate had shifted.

A new opponent. A derisive laugh was ripped from her throat as she recognized the woman and her little worth in one glance, but she saw rage next, absolute and unadulterated, and that was something she knew well, knew better than to underestimate – something that came with a tangy taste of danger, always. So be it, then.

The rhythm of their duel was frantic and ferocious and Bellatrix hit mercilessly, her eyes not drifting this time. She taunted and shouted but the urgency was there like a drumming at the back of her brain, as it assessed, reacted and now worried, having snapped from the heady high that came before a certain kill. She duelled and thought, no ally around her, only her Lord, in her back now. She would win, he would kill, and what then? Where was the army – the glory – their moment, so potent just minutes back?

Bellatrix laughed, as she'd heard "Never", and if the word hit her it only roused disbelief. Disbelief hit her next and there was a break in the rhythm somewhere as she, slowly, fell backwards. Her eyes touched the sky up above the Great Hall and she knew dimly that she'd never see dawn.

It never seemed possible.


	6. Wrecks of Hearts

**Here's the final one, probably. It was getting more and more of a stretch to fit the challenge theme ;) less Bellamort for this one. Enjoy!**

* * *

"_You have one hour_."

Bellatrix carried the scent of smoke and death in her hair as she hurried across the lawn, her guard up while she rushed past silhouettes in the darkness. Foes or allies, her fingers itched, curled around her wand tightly but her master had spoken and his word was the law she would abide, as always. Her heart raced in pace with her rapid footsteps, swelling within her chest and reverberating through her ribcage, so strong it would have made her tremble, had she stood still and allowed the rushes of feeling to wash over her. She didn't – he was waiting for her. He was waiting for them, the army that had fought in his glorious name, and she – had struck true, had brought death with a flash of her wrist and two words ripped from her lips, in the heat of battle, and she was coming back to him cleaner, purer, with blood on her cheek and victory in her eyes.

"_You have fought valiantly_."

The wind that hit her face felt cold and stinging, nearly bringing tears to her eyes, and she relished the violent sensation, feeling keenly alive as she gasped for breath. Her niece no longer would feel those rushes of air and that flutter in her lungs, she would no longer talk, walk, switch the colour of her hair and parade her worthless little presence with loud brazenness. Her niece lay on the ground in the castle, staring upwards with wide, too-familiar eyes and Bellatrix would have loved to kick her head and conceal her filthy little face, but she had taken her life and told herself that it was vastly enough. One hour – in one hour, the body would have been taken away – _disposed of with dignity_, with her beast of a husband's. One hour, it was not sufficient for her to rot, to crumble into dust – scum – but Nymphadora was dead, she had died in the middle of the night, in the middle of battle, away from her mother. She had fallen – stolen away. The circle was complete.

"_I'm scared, Bella – what if a beast was coming to steal me, when it's dark and I'm alone? Will you sleep with me? Will you protect me? Forever? Promise?_"

She was the beast in the shadows of nighttime, now, she was the nightmare and her sister's eyes were open wide and vacant in a dead girl's face, far away from her… far away… but she would return. _One hour_… One hour, and for now Bellatrix slipped into the forest, towards the source of the throbbing in her arm and the frenzy of her heart, lost and found. She surged into the clearing and the silent circle, her eyes seizing her master's shape eagerly. _Wait_, his red gaze told her before leaving hers, and she stepped closer with bated breath, silent, obedient, expectant.

From that small distance, in awe, she watched the time glide past him, bringing forth the sweet scent of victory.


End file.
